


Whisks in the Silverware Drawer

by PeabodyTypes



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, Gen, One Shot, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 18:56:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeabodyTypes/pseuds/PeabodyTypes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill from Tumblr. On noting Hannibal's perfectionism in how things are placed (pencils on his desk, books on Abigail's, etc), it was noted: "Where’s the fic where Will breaks out of prison just to go into Hannibal’s house and move all his furniture two inches to the left, make all his pretentious artwork hang just a lil crooked, un-alphabetize his books, move the soup ladles to the knife drawer, put pepper in the salt shakers - and then watches from somewhere, laughing as he has a complete meltdown?"</p>
<p>The following oneshot is an attempt to portray what would happen in that scenario.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whisks in the Silverware Drawer

Hannibal opened the door to his office and stopped. Something was… Off. He wasn’t sure how, and but something was definitely wrong. He cautiously closed the door behind him and checked underneath his desk. No one there, but he was still unsettled. Behind the drapes. Nothing. On the upper level, the library. No one. He appeared to be alone.

He tried to work. He really did. The nagging feeling of something out of place wouldn’t leave him be. He kept missing the stand when he tried to put his fountain pen down – he put it up to nerves. Eventually, he gave up on work and left his office, only to have a near-miss with the stag statuette by the door. He had to do an odd little skip-jump to the right to avoid an outright collision. Irked, the psychiatrist jerked the door open.

The feeling of something wrong persisted as he walked through the house. He wasn’t comfortable in any room; no matter where he tried to rest, something jarred through his classical records or caught the corner of his eye.

Hannibal retired to the kitchen, where he might, at last, find some solace. Cooking was something he had control over; surely not something that would confuse him like the rest of the house. Tying an apron around himself, Hannibal rolled his sleeves and selected his cut for the night.  
He carefully laid the slab of meat on the counter, then reached for the knife block.

There were no knives in the knife block. Instead, a collection of silverware poked out of each slot.  
Hannibal stared at it, brow slightly furrowed. This… This was not how it was meant to be. Where were the knives? Why was there silverware there? That was not where silverware went.

Cautiously, he moved to the silverware drawer and opened it. Hannibal gazed down, utterly confused, at a lovely collection of spatulas and whisks.

He tried the whisk drawer. It was stuck. A little fiddling, then he jumped back as three pairs of tongs leapt out at him.

This was ridiculous. Nothing was in its place. Who had moved his things? Why had they done so? Hannibal left the kitchen in disarray, pacing with mounting confusion and anxiety back through each of the rooms he had attempted to relax in earlier and bumping into several articles of furniture on the way. This room had its portraits switched around; another had each picture hanging ever-so-slightly crooked. He put them back in their proper places and alignments. What was happening?

He frantically returned to the study, intent on finding what was wrong with it, what had made him so anxious earlier. He would find it if it took him all night. He gave it a thorough search, but nothing seemed out of place. He climbed to the second story and began to look through his books, only to find them completely out-of-order. Augustine was next to a medical book on anatomy. The D-E Encyclopedia was put on the highest shelf, away from all its counterparts. There was no way he could search his collection like this.

Breathing rather faster than was normal, he returned to ground level and stared hard around the room, eyes bulging slightly. He didn’t see it. He didn’t see it. He..

/He saw it./

His eyes widened as he took in the room as a whole. Nothing was moved, but everything was moved. It was all shifted just slightly, disorienting him. His jaw clenched reflexively, and a small vein began to pound in his temple. His entire house was a mess. It would take all evening, and probably most of the following day, to set it right again.

As if he might see the perpetrator standing in the corner, Hannibal glanced around the room again, looking for someone to blame. No one. Nothing. Everything was moved and out of order and he couldn’t tell why or how. His hands found the edge of the desk, and his knuckles turned white from his crushing grip on the wood. He stared out the window, fuming with confusion and irked beyond belief.

Outside the window, hidden where Hannibal could not see him, Will Graham sat, orange jumpsuit smeared with mud, laughing harder than he could remember laughing in a long time.


End file.
